


I Want To Talk

by mystery_deer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, Family Feels, Gen, I worry everytime I write about them that there's gonna be one guy...just one guy..., Internalized Homophobia, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Teen Mycroft, anyway happy pride month, mycroft and sherlock are not a ship they are brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystery_deer/pseuds/mystery_deer
Summary: Mycroft discovers a peculiar piece of paper that Sherlock wrote and wishes to discuss it with him





	1. Ballroom

“Sherlock.” Called Mycroft evenly from somewhere in higher levels of the house. The building was opulent and old and had the ability to throw voices so that one might think that God himself was calling you down for dinner. 

Sherlock sat up, overturning his book. “What?” he called back, making sure to be as loud as possible to hear his voice bounce violently against the walls and chandeliers and numerous glass surfaces until it reached his brother’s ear.  
“I want to speak with you about this piece of paper I found-” 

He froze, immediately feeling sick.  
“Sherlock?” Mycroft was making his way downstairs now, they saw each other, made eye contact. What could Mycroft see in his eyes? Sherlock could see shock and shock could turn into anger very quickly as he learned and kept learning. 

They continued to stare, Mycroft also pausing his descent as if trying not to spook a wild animal. Before he could react Sherlock was on his feet and flying through the rooms of the mansion, silent except for his footfalls and the occasional creak of a floorboard.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft was after him with the same ferocity and Sherlock let out a scream as he tumbled down a short flight of stairs, quickly picking himself up and crawling into the room under the stairs. He threw his shoe in the opposite direction to lead Mycroft astray and quietly as he could closed the door. 

He listened as Mycroft ran in the direction of the shoe. Satisfied, he began climbing the steps inside this secret room, having to crawl due to the increasing narrowness of the passage. He was confident Mycroft wouldn’t be able to fit inside, no one in his family but himself was able to.

He finally reached another door which he opened and immediately came face to face with Mycroft, who was red-faced and panting. Sherlock screamed and attempted to close the door once again but Mycroft grabbed his arm, yanking him away from escape. 

Sherlock bit and kicked and squirmed, screaming the entire time as Mycroft grabbed more of him, held him tight in less of a hug and more of a "hanging onto a bull so as not to get bucked off" gesture. He held on until Sherlock had exhausted himself, then kicked the door closed and loosened his grip a bit. Not so much as to allow Sherlock to escape but enough so that he wasn’t in pain.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Mycroft asked and Sherlock winced until he continued with “Making me run all that way...the shoe trick? It’s the easiest one in the book.”  
“Are you angry with me?” Sherlock asked quietly, staring at the door and wishing himself through it. He wished he were in that claustrophobic darkness instead of here in this searing, punishing light. They were in the ballroom. 

Mother only allowed people in the ballroom when there were guests over, she adored this room. It was outfitted with mirrors and chandeliers and candelabras on every table. The floor shined and the ceiling had an angelic mural painted onto it. The walls, ceiling and floor were so white it was disorienting at times. And sometimes, like now, it felt as if you were floating, or falling to your demise. 

There was a sense of wrongness in being here that even Sherlock acknowledged. There was a sense of wrongness being here and being held and being asked about that stupid piece of fucking paper.  
“Sherlock did you hear me? I am not angry with you.”  
“Then why’d you chase me?”  
“‘Why did you.’” Mycroft corrected. “I chased you because you ran. If you run from someone please expect to be chased.” 

“I don’t know anything about that stupid piece of paper.”  
“You would not have run if you- Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed heavily, seeming to slump as the adrenaline of the chase finally left him. “Sherlock I am not angry with you over the paper or the chase, I simply want to talk.” 

Sherlock stayed silent. “Is that alright?” Sherlock nodded. “Good.”  
He stood suddenly and stretched. Sherlock wondered how Mycroft would survive past the age of thirty if he already had to stretch and groan after sitting down for about five minutes.

“Quickly now, let’s leave before Mother finds evidence of our being here.” Sherlock nodded again and took his brother’s hand without prompting, both of them walking out of the ballroom and into the hall. "We can talk in the back garden."


	2. Debutante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock speak to one another. An admittance or two is made.

The back garden was a good place to speak if you didn’t want anyone else to hear you. 

For one it was almost hard to move around in due to the large quantity of flowers, trees and bushes that decorated it. If you didn’t stick to the path laid out you might find yourself lost.  
Sherlock himself had often gone into the back garden and ended up in the woods enough times that a fence was constructed. It was just past this fence (the two boys had quickly loosened a few posts enough that they could act as a door) that they spoke. 

The woods were cool and quiet and Sherlock immediately felt at ease, climbing a tree and sitting on a sturdy branch. Mycroft allowed him this comfort and stood, arms crossed.  
“Did you read the whole thing?”  
Mycroft tilted his head and blinked. “Yes.”  
“Then what’s there to talk about?”  
“...Mother will be angry.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped and swung his legs idly. “I know that.” He paused, looking down at the ground below. He could just let go and drop. “Are you...gonna tell her?”

“...Am I 'going to' tell her? No.” He touched one of Sherlock’s legs and pushed it so it swung gently. “That’s your decision though I strongly advise against it. I didn’t tell her about me after all.”  
The woods were full of noises, none of them coming from either Sherlock or Mycroft for what felt like a full minute in the silence.

“You?....You’re perfect.” Sherlock said, laughing shallowly. Their parents always held Mycroft up as an example, as the ideal. Until he did something bad and then they mourned, gave a funeral for their golden boy. He always resurrected himself though, not Sherlock.  
“I’m gay.” Mycroft said. Sherlock looked down at him, his reddish-brown hair, perfectly combed. “I’m a homosexual.”  
“Oh.” Sherlock breathed, remembering. 

He recalled one night in particular, mother wasn’t home and their father was employing maids to watch the two of them but it was night now and he had called them in to watch television with him.  
He remembered on a show, a man kissed another man and his father howled with laughter. Sherlock couldn’t place why at the time but this laughter unnerved him, it unravelled his insides until they lay at a heap at the bottom of him.  
He couldn’t remember Mycroft’s expression because he was worried, he was worried to death that he’d be smiling and laughing too.

“I am too.” He said.  
“Sherlock…”  
“I am.” They were touching. Mycroft was grasping onto his ankle and Sherlock was letting his ankle be grasped. At any moment Mycroft could yank him down or Sherlock could kick him but they both knew the other wouldn’t. They trusted that. “I like a boy at school. He’s my science partner and I wrote him that letter for Valentine’s day but I didn’t give it to him.”

“...Alright.”  
“...Alright.” 

Mycroft let go of his ankle and moved to lean against the trunk of the tree. Sherlock took up idly swinging his legs once again. He worried about Mycroft’s worry.  
“If anything...happens. If anything happens please alert me to it.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“Don’t I do that already?”  
“Don’t you?” Mycroft snapped, then sighed and massages his temples. “I’m sorry.” He covered his eyes. “I’m sorry Sherlock.”

“For what?” A pause. “Mycroft?” Sherlock hung upside down and tugged at his brother’s hands. “Myc? For what?”

“Did I do this?”  
“I didn’t even know you were-”  
“It said- Mother said...I saw something that said homosexuals can…”  
“That’s dumb. Mycroft that’s so dumb are you an idiot?”  
“Sh-”  
“No! That’s so fuc-” In his fury Sherlock’s balance was tipped and he felt himself falling face first onto the ground below and he opened his mouth to scream but by the time any sound came out he was already in his brother’s arms.

“Be careful! God, are you helpless? What would you have done if I wasn’t here?” Sherlock looked up into his brother’s scared, wild eyes and wrapped his arms loose around his neck, hugging him.  
“I would have fallen.” He admitted, voice watery. 

Mycroft, a bit shocked by this sudden display of emotion, hesitated before reciprocating. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and leaned heavily against the bark of the giant tree. He wanted to speak, to comfort his brother but he could think of nothing to do or say and so he just held him in silence and prayed it was enough.

It was late evening before they spoke again. Sherlock had run off shortly after the hug and Mycroft had no energy or motive to chase him. He was reading in the sitting room when Sherlock appeared again, covered in leaves and dirt. Mycroft shut his book resolutely and began the task of picking these things off of him.  
It was a ritual they’d established a long time ago and one neither of them questioned.  
Sherlock closed his eyes as Mycroft deftly tidied. “I want to protect you too if you need it.”

Mycroft hummed in a short, ‘how sweet’ manner.  
“I mean it!” Opening his eyes, Sherlock crossed his arms. “We have to...we’re going to stick together. And…” He looked across the room, into the mirror where he was looking across the room into himself. “And we’re going to escape this place together.” He decided.

In the mirror he could see Mycroft pause for a moment before continuing. After awhile he nodded and brushed off Sherlock’s hair and shoulders. “Good as new.”  
“Did you hear me?”  
“Yes, Sherlock.”  
“And?” They stared at each other, gaze intense and unyielding until finally Mycroft looked away, into the mirror.  
“...Yes, fine. We will protect one another.” Sherlock grinned and stood up, extending his hand for a handshake.

“Don’t we always?” Mycroft looked at the boy’s hand before taking it in his firm grip, sealing whatever deal they’d made.  
“Don’t we?” And with that Sherlock ran from the room, going off to continue his day and Mycroft took up his reading once again.

Both of them felt a growing lightness in them, the joy of secrecy and the even greater joy of being seen. Of finally being pulled from darkness and into warm, understanding light.


End file.
